


By My side

by Jouissance (restrained_ubiquity)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Kabby, Missing Scene, One Shot Collection, post episode
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-10-09 23:38:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17414744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restrained_ubiquity/pseuds/Jouissance
Summary: A place for Kabby one shots.  Lots of angst, a little fluff.  Summaries at the beginning of each chapter.I fell for Kane and Abby.  I fell hard.  Here's what happened.





	1. Kiss Me When We Wake Up

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Polis after everyone wakes up from the City of Light.

Disinfect, suture, bandage, repeat.

Disinfect, suture, bandage, repeat.

She’s been at it for hours. Though it could have been days, weeks, or minutes. There was no such thing as time in the City of Light and her brain hasn’t caught up to it since she’s been out. It was early morning when everyone woke up, when Clarke had fought through the City and disabled ALIE for good, since she filled her daughter’s body with black blood, since she shot dead the people that kept coming to stop her.

It’s dark now. The throne room lit only by candles and torches as she keeps moving from injured to injured. They are less and less severe now. They’d treated the critical first. All that remains are minor cuts and burns that, if she’s honest with herself probably don’t need treating, but she can’t stop. If she stops she thinks and she doesn’t have room in her soul to process what she’s done.

She kneels down next to Bellamy who sits on the steps next to the throne, exhaustion evident in his every feature. He’d been in and out all day, helping people find a place to sleep, bring more and more bandages and water. The last she’d seen him he had been carrying out a sleeping Clarke and promising Abby she’d be safe. She trusted him. He and Clarke had a knack for keeping each other safe and as horrible as it was to admit, she couldn’t bare to look at her daughter any longer. Clarke had granted her forgiveness without a thought, but Abby will never forgive herself. “Has anyone looked at this?” she asks after a long moment of staring at the blood smeared down his face before bringing her shaking hand to his temple.

“It’s nothing,” he tells her with a tired smile. “I’ve been wacked in the head much harder. I’m sure it looks worse than it is.” Bellamy takes her hand lowering it back to her lap. She stares at the unrecognizable appendages. They are covered in blood: black, bright red, and every shade in between. They had helped people; they had hurt people. People she loved. People she would die for (and almost had.) Bellamy’s hand covers both of hers, pulls her momentarily from the dark path her mind was creeping down. “Take the hallway til it stops, turn right,” he squeezes her hands hard enough that it should have gotten her attention. It doesn’t.

Abby tries to make sense of what he’s saying, she really does. She knows he wouldn’t be telling her something that wasn’t important. They didn’t have time to spare for anything that wasn’t important. But no matter how hard she tries to focus, the young man’s instructions won’t sink in.

“I’ll take her,” the voice is in her ear, but feels so far away. There’s a hand between her shoulder blades, one under her elbow, gently urging her back to her feet. Her legs feel like jelly when her knees lock in place. The hand stays on her elbow, the other moves to her waist holding her up more than she’d like to admit.

They have already turned before she thinks to ask or even consider where she was being taken. The hand abandons her elbow to pull back the fabric draped over the doorway before walking (dragging) her inside. “Kane?” the voice asked as they step further into the room. He leans her against the doorway, holds her there long enough to ensure she’ll stay upright before venturing further inside. Jackson. The fog lifts, if only slightly and Abby cranes her neck to confirm it was her friend and colleague that brought her here. He’s looking back at her with the same bright eyes he always does. The same eyes that had stared her down as he stalked toward Clarke; the eyes she had been seconds away from taking the light from.

The panic slams into her. Surely this is what it feels like to be floated on the ark: to have the breath ripped from your lungs, the warmth instantly taken from your body. There was nothing below her feet and she claws at the air seeking something to steady her. There are arms around her within seconds: Jackson is back kneeling behind her, Kane falling to his knees at her side. They are both saying her name again and again; each utterance a marker to lead her back to them.

Neither man moves until she stops gasping for air, until the numbness begins to consume her once more. “I didn’t want to leave her alone,” Jackson tells Kane, feeling he needs to explain bringing her here instead of one of the makeshift bunk rooms or a place of her own. He doesn’t. Kane’s silent nod tells him as much. Jackson removes the bag of bandages from his shoulder and hands it to Kane. “I want to look at her neck,” he snaps back into Doctor mode, shifting so that he’s positioned at Abby’s side opposite him. “She hasn’t stopped long enough to be treated herself.”

Kane waits for the smart remark from Abby, her standard _I can take care of myself_ or _I’d have treated it if it needed treating_. Neither come. She stares blankly at her knees, breath hitching every few moments, but otherwise silent. It scares him. He hates that it scares him; he hates that he wasn’t there for her in those initial moments after the City of Light shattered around them; he hates that he clung to her, released is rage and pain and grief into her embrace and hadn’t taken any of hers in return; he hates that it’s Jackson that picks her up off the floor and carries her to the lone chair in the room.

“Do you have water?” Jackson asks as he sets her down. Kane is on his feet darting around the room because this is something he can do. This is some small way that he can help her right now.

“It’s cooled,” he says apologetically, setting the basin and pitcher on the floor at Abby’s feet.

Jackson simply nods, dipping a rag into the water and wringing it out. Kane looks lost. They all do; the ones that were forced into taking the chip. He took it so long ago, willingly. Maybe that’s why he’s not as affected as they are? Maybe because he was under ALIE’s influence longer? Maybe it just hasn’t all caught up with him yet. He’s sure the latter is the correct answer; he’s sure when he’s done with his patients, maybe even when he’s done here with Abby that he’ll have to face down the same demons he sees in the eyes of Abby and Kane right now. Maybe later, but not yet. “Can you move her hair?” he gives Kane something to do. It seems to help, his eyes focus, his hands steady, as he scoops Abby’s hair off her shoulders and drapes it over the back of the chair. Jackson pretends not to notice the practiced way his fingers slip through the strands. He’s not blind to the ever growing affection between them, but he’s not sure he’s forgiven Kane for the Ark, for the lashing. People that hurt those he loves were rarely granted his forgiveness and Abby Griffin is definitely someone he loves.

He brings the rag to her neck, gently pressing against the bruised and bloodied flesh, visibly relieved when it appears to be mostly superficial. Kane has a different angle though and his brow is creased in concern. “Abby,” he says gently, fingers ghosting along the back of her neck. “Abby, I need to take your necklace off.” Her hand shoots to the ring hanging at her chest, the sudden movement causing both men to startle. “Abby,” Kane says again, quiet, calm. It takes a moment, but she nods slightly. Kane releases the clasp, pulling the chain slowly from the side of her neck.

Jackson sees it as soon as Abby flinches; the angry red gash where the rope had forced the metal into her skin. “Wait,” he tells Kane, placing the cool rag against where the chain is the deepest. It won’t numb the pain, not by far, but he hopes it distracts from it if nothing else. He removes the rag, Kane pulls chain. The repeat the process millimeter by millimeter until the necklace hangs freely from Kane’s fingers.

“I’ll keep it safe,” Marcus promises her as he watches her eyes flit from the ring to him. There’s a thousand questions and confessions in her eyes that they shelve for another time. He steps away quickly, placing her necklace on the bedside table and returning to her side. Jackson is already applying a bandage to the side of her neck. He’s efficient, tender. Abby taught him well. He kneels at her side again, brings the damp cloth to her split lip, dabs at her swollen eye. “How did this happen?” he asks no one in particular. The answer shouldn’t matter, he holds no one responsible for their actions while under ALIE’s influence, but it’s Abby and that’s the only reason he has for his need to know. He remembers her bruised eye, the guards that threw her to the floor when he was first taken prisoner in Polis; he hadn’t thought much about how it happened at the time. They never seemed to have time to think about such trivial things as where the latest bruise came from. “She had already taken the chip before she came here,” Kane muses again, gently wiping the dried blood from her forehead. He forces himself not to think too much about the fact that she’s sitting here silently, letting them take care of her.

There’s no accusation in Kane’s voice, only concern for the woman they both love. Jackson feels it nonetheless. Abby was hurt and he wasn’t. There was barely a scratch on the young doctor’s skin and those that were, only occurred in the last seconds before Clarke pulled the kill switch; in the seconds when he was forced to watch the torture in Abby’s eyes at the thought of having to stop him from getting to her daughter. “ALIE wanted to trick you into taking the chip willingly. _It_ thought it would be easier if she looked like she’d been held captive.” He spits the words out, bit by bit remembering what he had let take over his mind. “It wasn’t me,” he tells Kane firmly, needing to say it as well as hear it. “I...I wasn’t the one that hit her,” his head falls as he remembers the image of Abby in the hallway with a glassed over look on her face as one of the chipped Grounders beat their fists into her body until blood flew from her mouth, until she fell to the floor then let them drag her to the room where Kane was being held.

The room tilts and Jackson’s certain he’s going to be sick as he stares and stares at the stone floor willing the memories to stop. There’s a hand on the back of his neck, small, but strong, squeezing until he finds the courage to look up. “We’re gonna be okay,” Abby’s broken voice barely reaches his ear, but the assurance in her eyes is unmistakable.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say as he squeezes her hands and lets his forehead fall against her knee. “I’m so so sorry.”

“Stop,” she orders in her best mother/doctor/chancellor voice, repeating what Clarke had assured her when the dam of guilt first broke. Her voice isn’t nearly as firm as it should be, or maybe it’s just right because Jackson pulls back, nods at her as he gets to his feet. She stands with him, grateful for Marcus’ steadying hand on her back until she can get her arms around Jackson’s neck. “It wasn’t you,” she whispers into his ear. “I don’t blame you. Not for one moment do I blame you.”

Kane steps away. He can’t get far, the room Bellamy drug him to isn’t all that spacious, but it’s warm and there’s a bed, a small table and a chair, luxury living compared to what he’s used to. He retreats to the edge of the bed, wraps Abby’s necklace around some antler decor on the table to give himself something to do while Jackson and Abby take the moment they need.

Jackson has a vice grip around her. He’s probably hurting her ribs, but she’s not protesting so he’s not letting go. “I love you,” he tells her with a wet chuckle into her bruised neck. “You do know that, right? You’ve practically raised me, Abby and I know I’ve never said it, but…”

“I love you too,” she cuts him off because she does know and he has told her many times over even if it wasn’t in words.

When he pulls away, he’s still wiping at his eyes, still seeing the untold horrors they’ve all witnessed behind them. “Get some rest,” he tells her, straightening his spine. And then turns to Kane, instructing “Make sure she sleeps.”

Kane nods, smiles at the young doctor who is Abby through and through and takes his place at Abby’s side when Jackson leaves it.

She waits until Jackson is out of the room, until the heavy fabric re-covers the doorway, until she no longer hears his footfalls in the hallway. Then she breaks. The sound she makes hurts her chest, her throat burns with the guttural sobs she can’t control. Marcus is there, collapsing with her to the floor, holding her as tightly as she held him. He doesn’t _Shush_ her. He doesn’t tell her it’s okay. It’s not okay. Nothing about what they’ve been through is okay. The things she’d done under ALIE’s control are devastating: she’d hurt her child, she’d manipulated, she’d tortured. For fuck’s sake, she’d hung herself in front of her daughter. No one should be put through that. It wasn’t okay. But it hadn’t ended there for her. She’d woken up. She’d been Abby again and he suspected she was having a harder time dealing with what Abby did than what ALIE did with her body.

He’d taught her to shoot after Mount Weather; he’d taught her not to miss and she hadn’t. He was aware of everything around him while under ALIE’s control. Even with his hands wrapped around Bellamy’s neck, staring blankly into the man’s (he no longer thought of any of the kids as kids) eyes, he remembers seeing the Grounder soldiers fall, one after the other as they kept flooding into the throne room. He remembers Jackson and the ever present peaceful expression on his face as he got closer and closer. She’d been a heartbeat away from having to shoot the person she loved as a son.

It wasn’t okay.

She needs to cry, needs to purge the pain.

It’s not long before she starts to settle. Sobs turn to hiccups that soften into quiet gasps as she slowly releases the white-knuckled grip she has on his arms. She’s laying against him, her side pressed to his chest, he’s got an arm wrapped around her holding to the small of her back, another cradling her neck with his fingers in her hair. She doesn’t ever want to move. Except the floor is hard. And cold. And he’s hurt. _You hurt him_ surges back into her mind and she holds him tight once again, swallows down the sobs she no longer has the energy to let loose. “We should get up,” she says eventually.

He sighs into her hair, “Whenever you’re ready.”

Never. “We’re too old to sleep on the floor,” she tries to joke but it just comes out sad and tired. She’s so tired.

He groans as he slowly gets to his feet. He’s definitely too old to sleep on a stone floor. He’s too old to climb a tower, to fight with men half his age. _Didn’t stop you from almost killing, Bellamy_ the vicious part of his brain attacks. He closes his eyes against it, forces it back deep inside. When he opens them again, Abby is close to the fire, staring down at her blood stained shirt. It’s stitched up the back, he notices in the firelight. A perfect little row of neat stitches to repair the shirt he had ordered to be ripped off to bare her back. Had that only been a few months ago? His thoughts race back to the present when Abby pulls the shirt over her head and tosses it aggressively into the flame. When she faces him it’s with a determined look on her face and everything in Kane relaxes. _There she is_ , he smiles holding his hand out to her. He leads her to the bed where they sit side by side unlacing boots, unbuttoning pants like this is there nightly routine and not something they’ve never done before.

Her pants fall off of her hips the moment she stands; they were too big before she took the chip and regular meal times hadn’t been on ALIE’s agenda. She pitches them toward the fireplace as well. They don’t quite make it, ending up rumpled near the chair, but they’re away and it’s enough for now.

Her hand flies to cover her gasp when she turns back to Marcus. He’s sitting on the bed, bare legs stretched out in front of him, bare chest on display. He’s covered in bruises. There’s barely an inch of skin that’s not mottled or bandaged. “Oh my God,” she muffles, rooted to the spot at her side of the bed. “Why didn’t you say something?” she whispers as she lowers her hand. He can see her trying to force Abby back and bring Dr Griffin out. He’s grateful that she’s failing.

“I don’t need a doctor, _Abby_.” he emphasizes her name, reaching his hand out to her again. “Jackson patched me up earlier,” he turns his pristinely wrapped wrists for her to inspect. “They’ll fade. We’re all bruised,” he can’t help stare at her. He’s never seen her in this state of undress (just her tank and panties); even bruised and battered she’s beautiful. Under different circumstances he would not be the gentleman he fully intends to be tonight.

She takes his hand, holds out for another minute before he’s tugging at her arm and she lets herself be pulled into the bed next to him. He shifts himself down so that he’s laying on his back and pulls the furs over them both. Abby lays on her side on the edge of the bed. She’s stiff as a board and entirely too far away. “Come over here,” he whispers because the room has darkened with the dying fire and the moment is far too intimate to disturb.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispers back, pulling herself so close the edge that he fears she’ll fall off.

She’s not going to come to him, he realizes, so he goes to her. Scooting bit by bit until he can reach out to her, his hand brushing her arm and pulling until she falls to her back beside him. He shifts to his side, forcing back the grimace of pain he knows will send her running out the door, props his head up on hand and looks down at her. Her eyes are wet with tears he knows she’s not ready to shed. “I need to be close to you,” he whispers again, his warm breath washing over her skin. “I need you by my side.”

Another stream of tears slips from her eyes at his confession. He still wants her close. After what she’s done, after how she hurt him. He still needs her. Maybe the world won’t break apart if she lets herself need him too. She can’t answer him tonight, not in words, but he seems content with the nod she gives. He eases himself back to the mattress and holds his arm out to bring her in. Marcus sighs deeply as she settles her head against the least bruised portion of his chest, her hand resting above the steady beat of his heart.

“Marcus,” she mutters against him and Kane isn’t sure she’s awake. He isn’t sure that he is either for that matter. Still, he _hmmms?_ in response and after a silent moment she continues in the same sleepy tone. “I want to kiss you, but I can’t move. Kiss me when we wake up.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he smiles for the first time in longer than he can remember. She turns her head only, places a barely there peck against his chest. His lips press into hair and stay there. He makes one more lazy pass of his fingers along her arm then they still. Exhaustion wins out and they finally sleep.

Nothing is okay, but right here, in this moment he can find peace.


	2. First Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Season 5 (what I hope for Season 6)  
> Very loosely based off of Ray LaMontagne's song Lay It On Me. At least that's what I was listening to when inspiration struck.

The walls are white.  The blankets are white.  The tables and the chair in the corner are white.  Why white? She wonders. What doctor thousands of years ago decided that white would be the color to mean sterile, heal, cure.  It’s madness. The floral dress that Raven brought her from the market looks absurd against all this blank color. She feels like there’s a target on her, like she’s chaos to the order that surrounds her.  Raven meant well. She meant to make her smile. They all had. All her “kids” had brought her gifts as they ventured out of the Eligius III medical facility and into their new home. Jackson had brought her food six days in a row until she told him that the staff here had been providing her meals.  Then he brought her flowers. Murphy had brought her a hairbrush and a sad smile as he downplayed the wonders that lie beyond these walls. Clarke and Madi had stayed by her side during her own treatment. She may have been clean of the drugs when she entered cryo-sleep, but her system had been severely compromised.  Combined with the dehydration and malnutrition they all suffered from, Abby was in need of medical treatment as much as any of her patients.

 

The technology here was beyond anything Abby had on the Ark, certainly more than she had on the ground.  The treatment was fast, painless; in a matter of hours she felt and looked better than she had since before the Ark crashed to Earth.  But equipment or not, medicine was medicine; the human body only held so many secrets. The doctors here respected her, consulted her about the people she’d been patching back up for years.  One had even offered her and Jackson a position here once her and her people were settled in. It was too good to be true, finally an armistice in the never ending war she’d been fighting her entire life.  All she had to do was leave this white room.

 

“Not without him,” she had told them all after their bribes and coaxing and promises to keep vigil while she was away.  It was appreciated and she hoped she was able to convey that to each of them, but it was also impossible. She’d started this journey with Marcus Kane at her side and she couldn’t continue it knowing there was a chance he could stand there again.  

 

She stares at him in the white bed, covered by the white gown and the white blankets.  His skin as pale as the monochrome that keeps him alive. Alive. The word hangs there, looming between them.  He’s not dead. His heart still beats, his lungs still breath, but it’s the machines surrounding him that give his body life.  She’s no longer sure if his spirit remains, if it’s strong enough to fight it’s way back to her; she’s no longer sure she has a right to ask it to.  

 

There’s a hand on her shoulder and Abby jumps at the intrusion.  The other woman remains stoic beside her, looking toward her friend on the bed.  “Indra,” Abby says, reaching up and covering the warriors hand with her own.

 

“I was told his fight may be over today,” she says solemnly but Abby can hear the grief in her steady voice.  “He would want you to have this. He gave it to me when Octavia sentenced him to the pits.” She takes Abby’s hand, places the crumpled and blood-stained paper in it then leaves the room as silently as she entered.  

 

Abby stares at paper in her hand, traces the edges, underlines her name written in Marcus’ small, neat print.  It shocks her that Indra has carried this with her out of the bunker, through battle, kept it safe for over a hundred years.  But it doesn’t. If Kane had asked her to deliver it, than it shouldn’t surprise her at all.

 

She should wait.  There’s a chance he’ll come through this.  She should wait to read the words he left her with.  She should.

 

Her hands tremble as she unfolds the fragile paper and begins to read.

  
  


_ My dear Abby, _

 

_ You hate me right now.  We’ve been in the bunker for 2 weeks and you’ve barely met my eye.  I don’t blame you. I took away your choice. Maybe that was wrong, but I don’t regret it; I’ll never regret saving you the way you saved me.  You’ve made me a better man. You’ve made me the person that can get our people through the next five years. But I can’t do it without you. Even if you can’t bear to look at me, knowing you’re here, knowing you’re safe and that you’re by my side in leadership if not in love...well, it will have to be enough for now.  _

 

_ I hope you forgave me. _

 

_ If you couldn’t, I hope that you know that my intentions were pure.  We needed you to survive; we needed a doctor. No. You’ll scoff at that, you’ll know the truth so here it is:  _ _ I _ _ need you.   _ _ I _ _ love you.  Maybe it was selfish of me not to let you go.  Could you have done it to me, I wonder? Could you have drug my body outside and left me to be consumed by Praimfaya and gone about your life down here alone?  I know the answer. You opened the door for me.  _

 

_ I don’t know why I’m writing this.  Probably because you won’t talk to me and I need your council, your solace, your forgiveness. _

 

_ But none of this is what I set out to say so I’ll just say this.  I love you, Abby. I think I’ve loved you longer than I can even conceive.  I hope that when you read this you are an old woman and that you can look fondly back on the years I spent by your side. I hope that my last breath was your name.  Please know that it was even if you didn’t hear it because your name is life to me, Abby. It gives me hope; it gives me the strength to guide our people through the darkness, to do what needs to be done. _

 

_ Keep that with you as you go on.   _

 

_ May we meet again, _

 

_ Marcus _

 

 

The pages flutter to the floor as Abby buries her head in her hands and weeps for the precious moments she wasted being mad at him for loving her too much to let her die.  So much time. So much she may never get to apologize for. She doesn’t deserve him or the forgiveness he selflessly granted her. She weeps for their future; the one he dreams about; the one she callously threw away with a guilt she wasn’t strong enough bear.

 

“Dr. Griffin?” the voice is clinical, but warm.  “It’s time.” The young doctor that has been monitoring Marcus slowly enters the room.  There are others in the hall, but they wait until they are called, giving Abby as much privacy as they can.  She takes in gulps of air, futily wiping her tears as she stands on shaking limbs and walks with the doctor to Marcus’ bed.  They’d discussed this. They’d agreed. Abby had insisted she be the one to do it and the physician hadn’t argued, only showed her what to do.  “We’ll be monitoring everything from outside,” she took Abby’s hand in hers, squeezed it tightly. There was an understanding there: physician to physician, woman to woman. The people were kind here.  Welcoming. It could be a place she eventually called home. 

  
  


When the door slides shut, Abby climbs into the bed.  It’s a practiced maneuver, she’s slept here every night since they landed on Eligius, but her movements are slow, purposeful.  This could be the last time she curls her body into his.

 

“I read your letter,” she confesses quietly.  “The one you gave to Indra? Do you even remember writing it?  That was so long ago. Longer than you’d even believe. I probably shouldn’t have.  Not until…” She trails off unable to say the words.  _ Until you’re truly dead _ .  They weave through her like a dark, twisted poison.  She won’t give them the power of her voice. “It’s been 23 days since we brought you out of the cryosleep. This medical center is amazing, Marcus.  The equipment they have, what they can do...they’ve done everything, EVERYTHING that they can do. The rest is up to you.” She’s stalling shamelessly.  “You said in your letter that you hoped we lived a long and happy life and I want that. I want that with you. But this,” she traces the tube going into his arm, runs her fingers along the mask helping him breathe.  “This isn’t living. This isn’t what you want. I know you think you lost your way and maybe you had. We both had. I don’t know how to make it right for you. I don’t know what to tell you other than I’m still here and I’m not going anywhere.  So if you want to come back, if you want to try to find ourselves again, to find each other, I’m by your side.

 

“But it’s your choice.  I can’t make it for you.  I should never have taken that away from you.  I shouldn’t--” her mind floods with the grotesque memories of the bunker, of her manipulation of him; her betrayal.  “I don’t know how you could forgive me.” Her fingers weave through his hair, trace the scar Vincent left on his neck.  “I’m going to turn this off,” she reaches over him, hands shaking so badly she has to use both of them to turn the dial on the respirator.  She knicks him a bit removing the IV from his arm. The small bead of bright red blood is a stark contrast to the sterile white surrounding them.  Abby stretches out along his side, her face buried in his neck, palm flat against his chest. She doesn’t look at the monitors; she doesn’t want a machine telling her the man she loves is gone.  She’s deathly still, barely breathing herself as she feels the too shallow rise and fall of his chest. Her eyes squeeze together, but the tears still flow down her cheeks, soaking into the pillow beneath them. “Fight, Marcus,” her whisper is warm against his ear as she nuzzles in impossibly closer.  “You’re not a quitter; you‘ve never run away from a fight. I know you deserve this. God knows you deserve to rest, you deserve to choose your fate, but please...Don’t quit now. Don’t run now. We made it. We can start over here. We can be better. Please, Marcus! Please please please please please.” 

 

She wasn’t going to beg.  She’d promised herself that, promised him that, but the desperate pleas tumble from her lips uninhibited.  “This is selfish, I know it is,” she hiccups, propping her head up so she can look down on him. Fingers stroke the hair at his temples, run down his jaw to his lips then back up.  Over and over. “I’m selfish,” the confession comes out with a sob. “Always have been, always have to get my way. You keep me in check, you keep me--”

 

“Aaaaabby.”  There’s a harsh gasp as his chest rises fully under palm.  His head thrashes against the pillow, bumping into her hand.  His arms reach blindly grasping on to her, fingers digging painfully into her side.  Abby jolts upright, both hands cupping his face, thumbs stroking his cheeks. 

 

“Marcus,” she means to sound calm, but panic consumes her.  Not like this. She had readied herself to lay by his side while he drifted into an endless, peaceful sleep, not to watch him fight for breath that won’t reach his lungs; not for the last thing she hears to be the painful gasp of her name.  “Marcus!” she says more forcefully holding his head between her forearms to still him. “Marcus, I’m here. You’re okay. You’re okay.” Please be okay. 

 

The medical staff is moving efficiently around her, scanning, checking, inserting a needle into the arm tightly gripping Abby’s hip.  He goes limp almost instantly, head lulling against her hand, his arm heavy in her lap. The look of horror Abby gives the doctor could burn the world, but the young woman softly smiles.  “He’s alright, Dr, Griffin, I assure you. It’s easier to treat a condition when the patient is awake. The effects of coming out of cryo-sleep are different for everyone. The reaction is sometimes violent.  Considering the condition he was in when you placed in the chamber I expected a more violent response.”

 

“You knew this would happen?”  Abby asks accusingly, forcing herself not to look down to wear Marcus’ face is still heavy against her palm.

 

“I knew it could happen, yes.  I’m sorry for not telling you. I didn’t believe he would wake up and I wanted to spare you the details of what  _ could  _ happen.  You’re people are strong.  I’ll not underestimate them again.”  She adjust something else on a monitor that Abby can’t see and nods to dismiss the other staff.

 

“He’s alright?” Abby’s voice cracks, still unable to believe this could all be over.

 

Marcus answers for her.  The arm that had been limp at his side slides up her arm until his hand cupped her face, turning it down toward him.  “Abby,” he breathes out, easy and strong. She lets herself be pulled down to him, fuses herself to his chest. It only takes seconds for his arms to envelop her.

 

She’s clean.  It’s the first thought that enters Marcus’ mind and strange as that may seem he can’t process it.  Her arms push under him, around his head; her hair blankets over them both. She’s soft, smells like the flowers she’s wearing.  Her eyes are bright and clear when she raises up just enough to look into his. “Did I die?” he asks cautiously because it seems the only logical explanation for waking in a room of white with a beautiful, healthy Abigail Griffin looming over him.  She laughs aloud, rich and pure and he’s even more convinced that this is some sort of heaven. He hasn’t heard that sound in years, hasn’t seen her smile. Reaching out, he brushes her hair over her shoulder, toying with the ends, not letting them go.  She pulls back slowly until she’s once again sitting by his side, he rises with her, the back of the bed automatically following his assent, bracing him. “Abby?” he asks a thousand questions with one word. 

 

“You’re not dead,” she’s still smiling, still crying, “But if you ever scare me like that again Marcus Kane, I will kill you myself.”  She swats his arm playfully, grabbing his hand and not letting go. 

 

“Where are we?” he looks around, recognizing nothing.  “How long was I asleep?”

 

Abby sighs.  “Those are both going to require quite a long explanation.  We’re safe. Most of us made it out.”

 

He has so many questions he doesn’t begin to know how to ask, so he settles on “Clarke?”

 

“She’s fine,” Abby confirms, granting him a grateful smile that one of his first thoughts had been her daughter.  “Bellamy, Raven, Jackson, Indra…” she trails off. She can give him the complete list later. “We’re home.” That’s enough for now.  His arms are back around her, pulling her in tight, making up for every second lost and vowing not to waste another. She’ll walk out of here with him soon; they’ll share the same moment of wonder as when they crawled out of Meta Station and saw Earth for the first time; they’ll find a place, a purpose here.  Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff next. I need a break from the heavy angst. Thank you for reading. Feedback is always appreciated.


	3. Cry Me A River That Leads To Peace (Or, How Marcus Learns to Float)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I promised fluff, but this got angsty pretty fast then sort of became a Kane introspective. I'm not sure what happened. There's fluff at the end. I promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after Mount Weather and before ALIE. Let's pretend they had a few weeks of normal.

_ Float  - to  rest or move on or near the surface of a liquid without sinking; to drift _

 

_ Float - to be executed for a crime; to be forced into an airlock and cast out into the nothingness of space _

* * *

 

Marcus doesn’t require much sleep.  Whether that’s just the natural rhythm or his body or something that he’s developed over years of being robbed of peaceful rest, he’s not sure.  Does it matter? He functions and that's enough. Except lately, since they've been on the ground, since they've been hunted, tortured, since Mount Weather, even the meager sleep his body requires is eluding him.  

__

It’s her fault

__

Not in any sense that he blames her for, no, not that, never that.  It’s just that she haunts him. Her screams have always haunted him.  Most of them brought on by his own action. He welcomed them then, leaned into the echoes of her pain and forced himself to wade through them night after night.  It was horrible; It wasn't even close the the punishment he deserved.

__

When he’d arrested Jake she’d screamed in hatred, spitting vile curses at him, threatened him, beat her fists into his chest until the other guards had pulled her away.  He bore the bruises for weeks, the scars are still there though only he sees them.

__

_ Float _

__

When he’d arrested Clarke she’d screamed in desperation.  Primal anguish that had her on her knees before him, begging, sobbing for her daughter to be spared.  He’d left her on the floor, forehead curled into her knees, her cries echoing through the corridors.

__

_ Float. _

__

She hadn’t screamed when he’d arrested her.  The look she gave him, the cold indifference laced with weariness; with relief?   _ Breaking the law to keep you from becoming Chancellor was the easiest choice I’ve ever made.   _ Those words, the contempt in her eyes haunted him more than her cries ever had.  There was no penance to be found in forcing himself to re-live her pain until it burned through him as it had her.  She didn’t know that he already hated himself more than she ever could.

__

_ Float _

__

He’d been seconds away from killing Abby; his conscious; his tether to his humanity even if he kept it locked away.   Despite following the law to the letter, doing his duty no matter what the cost, Marcus new that the small part of him that  _ deserved to survive _ , as she had said, would have been cast out into the void of space with her.  

__

Jaha had pardoned her. His desperate prayers to whatever deity still thought him worthy of favor had not gone unanswered.

__

Still, Abby hadn’t cried, hadn’t spared him a glance as she charged out of the airlock.  He was grateful for her urgency. He barely made it to his quarters before his own screams forced their way out.  Never had he allowed himself the release of his own tears, but the moment the door sealed the iron shell of his soul shattered in sweet relief. 

__

He still doesn’t know why he thought he could check on her later that evening, why his presence would be anything that she would welcome.  That was the point. He knew she wouldn’t, knew that she would lash out, berate him, throw his lack of humanity in his face. She would tear him down and it would be easier.  He knew how to live with the hatred of the people, reassured himself that as long as there was something to fight for, humanity would survive. He resigned to bear as much of their pain and burden as he could. 

__

When he got to medical, however, the strong, obstinate, and righteous Dr Griffin that should have put him in his place was sobbing uncontrollably in the arms of Eric Jackson.  The young doctor spared him one glance before turning his body so that there was no chance Abby would see him there. It was a subtle gesture, but it was enough to have Marcus backing away.  Those cries she wept for herself weren't meant for his ears.

__

_ Float _ .

She cried out in pain when he had her lashed.  Stared him down after each jolt of electricity ripped through her body.  Even when her legs wouldn’t hold her, when she hung limply from her bound wrists, she forced her head up to meet his eyes.  Only then would he order the next lash, and the next, and the next until she was close to losing consciousness and there wasn’t a member of Camp Jaha that wasn’t in tears.

__

He thinks she understood that though, he knows she did.  She’s told him as much in what she has and hasn’t said.  _  I did hear you, you know _ , he had told her.   _ I always hear you _ , he wanted to say, but suspects she knew that too.

__

_ Float _ .

__

Mount Weather had been different. He had stood by helplessly as those monsters had drilled into her bones.  She’d made sounds no human should ever make. Once he’d finally been able to release her, she’d fought for every breath. Couldn’t so much as sit up without  his arm braced behind her, cried out again when they had moved her to the stretcher. Mercifully one of the kids--he still doesn’t know who--pumped her full of morphine from Mount Weather’s generously stocked medical center and she’d slept most of the 8 hour trek home.  When she had woken he stayed by her side, let her grip his hand like a vice as her breath hitched at every bump along the journey.

__

There was nothing he could do to rid those sounds from his mind, nothing to be healed or gained by facing that pain and trying to take it as his own.  It was senseless.

__

_ Float. _

__

So he doesn’t sleep, tries to avoid the silent moments that invite the memories in.  His wrists are still bruised from where he’d pulled against the cuffs holding him to the wall and he rubs at them absently as he walks the perimeter of the camp.  There’s a peaceful quality to their ramshackle camp when it’s bathed in moonlight. The destruction isn’t quite so apparent, the loss not quite as oppressive. Normally, he would turn back in after his second pass, take the long meandering route back to his quarters and ready himself for the next day to start, but tonight he keeps walking.  Tonight he needs open space and star-filled sky so his demons can spread out instead of closing in around him.

__

He heads to the lake to the east of camp.  It’s not far, but it’s somewhere he rarely visits despite assurances from several of his people that he should take time to appreciate the beauty this planet has to offer amongst all the pain it’s put him through.  

__

He’s almost at the water’s edge before he sees the towel and pile of clothes neatly folded on the shore: patched up gray pants, a black t-shirt and an unmistakable blue jacket.  Abby. There’s a gentle sound rippling in the water. He’s on alert in an instant, eyes frantically scanning the water until they catch movement not too far from shore. She’s lying on her back, hair fanned out around her halo-like in the moonlight.  He wants to run to her, drops his light to do just that when he hears the ripples again. She’s running her arms through the water, letting the motion propel her back and forth.

__

_ She’s floating. _

__

He watches her for what feels like hours, completely mesmerized by her graceful movements in the water untils he rolls into it, disappearing under the dark surface only to emerge a few feet from the shore.  He moves quickly, switching off his light and slipping into the shadows just as she heads for her discarded clothes. He can’t help the smile that pulls at his lips as he catches sight of the knife strapped to her thigh.  (So much for admonishing her for coming out here unprotected.) He should go, definitely should not be lurking in the shadows as she dresses, but he’d hate to be the one that ruined the peace she seems to have found here. She’s relaxed in a way he’s not sure he’s ever seen.  Things had been relatively quiet since their return from the mountain, but the experience had changed them all. People looked at her differently, but not in the way that that had her snapping and refusing help even from Jackson. They didn’t see the weakness she thought she wore like a brand; like him, they saw the strength of a leader that had been through hell and came out the other end. 

__

He watches her until she’s safely back inside camp, weaves silently through the trees close enough that he can reach her quickly if need be.  She walks stiffly, the limp that she pushes through during the day comes heavier in the privacy of the night. He waits outside until the sun is almost up, until he’s sure she’s had time to make it back to her room, or more likely, to medical to start her day.

__

The next night he heads to the lake first.  Then the next night and the next and the next.  She’s there each time and each time he watches her from the trees as she strips down, wades into the water, and lets herself relax into its hold.  He doesn’t stare. Staring at a woman who doesn’t know she’s being watched is somthing Marcus Kane would never do. He always looks away when undresses and again when she comes out of the water.  Out of respect; out of the need to not see the scars on her body brought out by the moonlight.

__

He hears the splash that means she’s dove under the water and he waits until she comes up to avert his eyes.  Except she’s not coming up. He takes a deep breath, forcing down the rising panic, but it’s no use. He’s counting the seconds and several more have passed than it normally takes her to swim the distance to the shore.  His body reacts and before he can process what’s happening he’s running towards the shore, shedding his jacket, tossing his light and gun aside. His boot splashes hard in the water before he hears her laugh. “You should take your boots off.  They’ll take forever to dry out,” she sitting on a rock a few feet to his left, knees tucked under her chin. Like he had, she’s hidden herself in the shadows.

__

“That’s not funny, Abby.  I thought you had drowned!” he steps out of the water and makes his way toward her.  

__

“You’ve been spying on me,” she says defiantly, but she’s still smiling at him, he can see the glint in her eyes as he gets closer.

__

“I…” he starts, but she’s right, in a way.  He was watching her from shadows; spying. “I didn’t mean..I just wanted to make sure…”

__

“I know.  Relax, Marcus.  If I thought you were actually lurking you’d have heard about it before now.”

__

“Why am I hearing about it now?” he asks, leaning at the very edge of the rock and very purposefully looking out at the water.

__

“Because you should join me,” she says matter-of-factly.  “You should have joined me that first night.” She shoves his shoulder with her bare foot until he looks back at her.  “I don’t completely let my guard down, Marcus. I notice a flashlight in the middle of the night. Give me a little credit.”

__

“I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have intruded on your privacy.  I didn’t follow you,” he needs her to know that, “I just happened to wander here one night and you--”  He trails off, eyes returning to the water.

__

“I what?” she urges, scooting forward until she’s sitting at his side, close but not touching.

__

“You looked so peaceful,” he finally looks in her eyes.  “It helped, seeing you like that. It...It helps.” He’s not ready to tell her that her screams haunt his dreams, that the torture of watching her be tortured was worse than any physical pain he’s ever endured, that he knows he wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t made it through.

__

She sighs deeply, seeming to hear everything he couldn’t say.  “I never thought  _ floating  _ could feel so wonderful,” she muses, watching him as he watches the moonlight reflect on the water. “We should call it something else, really.  We destroyed that word on the Ark. It became a curse, a violent, evil thing that you couldn’t come back from. But it’s not. Not here.” He can only nod.   _ We don’t have to do this here,  _ echoes in his mind.   _ We can be better here. _  “Take your boots off, Marcus,” she uses his shoulder to push herself to her feet, then jumps off the rock and back into the water, splashing him mercilessly in the process.

__

“Marcus!” She splashes him again when she pops out of the water to find that he hasn’t moved.  She’s probably the only person on the planet that could get away with that and the wicked grin on her face tells him she knows it.  “It’s not deep. I won’t let you drown,” she assures him, standing to show him that the water is barely up to her shoulders and holding her hand out to him.  

__

There never was any point in denying her once she had her mind set on something.  Marcus bends and unlaces his boots, places them on the rock with his socks, then his shirt.  He leaves his pants on as he slowly makes his way to her. The water is cool, but not unpleasantly so.  He can already feel his body relaxing when he comes to stand next to her. “Lay back,” she instructs, but he’s at a loss and she can see it in the uncertainty that flashes in his eyes.  “If you’re relaxed, the water will hold you up,” she explains without ridicule. There were no swim lessons on the Ark. Water was a new experience for them all.

__

He trusts her.  He may not trust the water, or his ability not to sink within in, but he trusts her.  So he leans back. He moves too quickly, doesn’t get his legs out before his head goes under and instantly panics as his body sinks to the lake bed.  Abby pulls at his shoulders, guiding up to the surface where he coughs out water and sucks in air. “You make that look a lot easier than it is,” he laughs through his embarrassment.

__

“Watch,” she tells him simply, taking his hand so she won’t stray from his side and lying back in the water.  She shrugs her shoulders when he looks down at her in wonder. “Your turn,” she stands beside him and places her hand between his shoulder blades.  “I’ve got you.”

__

“Abby, you can hardly,” he starts but raises is hands in surrender when she gives him her don’t-you-dare-tell-me-what-I-can’t-do look.  He leans back into her hand, slowly raising one leg, then the other once the back of his head is in the water. Her hand is still on his back, her other on the back of his thigh holding him in place while he adjust to the sensation of weightlessness.  

__

“I’m going to let go.  Just relax,” she tells him, her voice dulled by the water around his ears, but her face tells him everything he needs to hear.  She releases him and Marcus floats in the water staring up at the stars. It’s the most at peace he’s ever felt. He relaxes even further, lets every muscle go, feels the water lapping at him, the warm breeze against his skin, her hand that finds his just below the water’s surface.  He sees her out of the corner of his eye, stretched out next to him. Her fingers lace with his, keeping him close as they watch the stars give way to the rising sun.

__

_ They float. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments and welcoming me into the fandom even though I'm horribly late to the party. :)


	4. Thank you for saving me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Red Queen and pretending I don't know all the bad that came after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really really awful at writing smut, but I make myself attempt it every now and then, delete most of it, and hope what's left isn't too cringe worthy. Forgive me if this is terrible.

Thelonious is dead. It seems impossible. The man has cheated death so many times its illogical that there can’t be just one more. She knew the moment Octavia brought her and Kane got to him, the moment she saw Jackson was kneeling solemnly at his side, the moment she looked into her friends eyes. His fight was over.

Theirs was just beginning.

Abby lets her head drop to Marcus’ shoulder as he recites the travelers prayer guiding Jaha’s spirit home. In that moment she wants to believe that it means something, needs to believe in something other than the constant struggle for survival. Is it worth it?  Do they deserve to survive? It’s not the first time she’s asked this and she wonders if there will ever be a last time.

“We need to…” She doesn’t recognize her own voice, hollow, defeated as it echoes around the room.

“I know,” Jackson’s hand is warm on her back, his own voice thick with tears for the man that was their leader for so long.

“His...body…” Abby forces the word out.  That’s what this is now; the man is gone, hopefully the spirit is at rest, and all that remains is the body that must be dealt with.

“Abby.”  There’s two hands on her now. Jackson’s always been able to say so much with just her name. He looks to Indra, the warrior standing resolute at Kane’s side. A silent agreement passes between them. They would bear this burden. Silently the woman guides Kane to his feet, Jackson doing the same, pressing Abby into Marcus’s side once they are all on shaking legs.

“Thank you,” Kane manages to say to them both. It isn’t necessary the gentle shove towards the door tells him that. Their friends would take care of Thelonious leaving Abby and Kane to take care of each other.

 

**

  
Marcus can’t let her go. It’s been weeks since she’s let him look at her for longer than absolutely necessary let alone touch her, hold her as he is now. She’s molded to his side, shoulders trembling under is arm. He doesn’t know where he’s going until he’s outside the door to his quarters. He doesn’t think to ask if she’d like to come in. She doesn’t need him to. Abby steps in front of him, her hand still gripping his wrist never breaking that contact they have both craved, and opens the door pulling him in after her.

He’s barely shut the door before she’s pulling his lips down to hers. One hand fists in his hair, the other pulls at his shirt until she’s got it untucked and her hand can press against the firm muscle of his chest.  He’s warm and strong and right now Abby needs nothing more than to feel the steady beat of his heart under her palm; life.

Kane must feel the same because the hands gripping her hips slide up her sides taking her shirt with them. If there was a way to get to her skin without breaking the kiss he would have done so. As it is, he spares barely a breath ridding her of her clothes and himself of his before he’s kissing her again pressing against her. It begins to settle the torrent of emotion inside of him that’s been raging ever since she told him she didn’t deserve a place in the bunker.

She pulls him tighter against her, trapping herself between the heat of his body and the cool metal of the door.  His thigh presses between her legs, his cock hard against her belly. She wants him. Needs him. The urge to fuck hard and desperate right up against this door is overwhelming her senses and she knows he feels it to.  He breaks the kiss to look down at her. Eyes wild with lust, with pain, with that spark of something that is always there every time he looks at her. (She’s not ready to call it love again. She hasn’t earned that back.)

“Breathe,” he whispers into the small space between them and it's only then that she realizes she hasn’t been. Taking in a gulp of air she reaches for him again, hands clawing at his shoulders to pull him down to her, to kiss the air from her lungs once more.  He bends to her, but only pecks at the corner of her mouth before kissing his way along her jaw, her neck, settling his lips against her racing pulse in slow gentle presses until it begins to slow. “I need you,” he tells her resting his forehead against her shoulder as they both breath each other in.

“You have me,” her hand tangles in his hair, holding him against her.  Her body relaxing and letting the wall support both of their weights. She doesn't feel trapped; she feels….safe.  “I’m so sorry,” she kisses against his forehead when he bends to press his own kiss into her chest.

It strikes him that he’s not sure what she’s apologizing for. A shared empathy for the death of their friend?  For pushing him away? For not understanding why he wanted to save her life? For asking him to to let her die?  For choosing to leave him alone in this nightmare of a life they can’t wake from? He should hate her for it all, but he loves her too damn much, needs her more than that.  They’re all that’s left of them, the ones who have been forced to do the inhumane for the sake of humanity. Theolonias is gone and if he hadn't circumvented her wishes she’d be gone as well.  He’d be alone in this room, alone in this bunker with only the ghosts of those he was forced to kill so others might survive.

“Do I?” he doesn’t disguise the hurt in his voice.  She tried to leave him once and he can’t help but question if she’ll do it again.

She knows what he’s asking.  He needs _her,_ not a quick fuck to quiet the demons.  He needs her by his side, battling the demons they alone must carry.  “You have me,” she says again, stronger, certain.

He hears it. He hears everything she can’t give a voice to because it's just too much.  The pain, the regret, the fear, the guilt, the gratitude. “I need you too,” she tells him through fresh tears.  He’s kissing her again, that desperation back but now for entirely different reasons. He’s got her back and this time he has no intention of letting her go.

Before she’s realized that he’s picked her up, Marcus is lowering her onto the bed in the corner.  It’s nothing more than a cot: a far cry from the fur covered luxury they shared in Polis, not even the lumpy fabric piled onto the metal frame that creaked and groaned with every movement in Arkadia. But as Abby lays back, open arms beckoning him to her, there’s nowhere else in the world that Marcus Kane would rather be.

He settles slowly on top of her, letting his weight press into her inch by inch.  He’s always afraid he’ll hurt her when they do this, crush her small frame with the bulk of his body, but as she is now, she’s always welcomed him into her embrace, wrapped her arms around his back to pull him in closer until she’s blanketed by him.  She's missed this. She’s missed him, but she only has herself to blame.

The sob is unexpected for both of them.  Hot and wet against her skin where his soft kisses lingered just seconds before.  Marcus’ whole body stiffens on top of hers, lips clamped tightly shut to hold in what needs to be released. “It’s just us here,” she says softly with her lips pressed into his shoulder.  “You don’t have to hold anything back with me.” Abby trails her fingers across his back, up and down over his spine across his shoulder blades, the ghost of a touch that loops and loops until he finally, slowly, starts to relax once more.  

The shuddered breath he releases ruffles her hair.  He stays there in her arms for a few more deep, slow breaths, focusing on nothing but her touch on his skin, her smell, the taste of his own tears against her neck.  “Is he better off?” he asks, easing himself off of her, shifting so that his back is pressed up against the wall and his chest against her shoulder. She stiffens beside him and panic sweeps through him that he’s pushed too far too soon.  But she doesn’t run, doesn’t leave his side as she promised she wouldn’t. “I shouldn’t ask you that,” he drops a kiss to her temple, rests his hand along her ribs. “I have no right to ask you that.”

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it,” Abby grips his arm, keeping him with her.  “When I asked you not to include my name I didn’t want to take a place from someone else, but...I thought...I thought maybe it would stop.  That everything would stop.” Her eyes are closed, tears flowing steadily form the corners of her eyes, disappearing into her hair. He doesn’t wipe them away, just stares down at her, hand moving up and down her stomach.  When she continues its with a broken whisper of “And I wanted that.” There’s nothing he can say to that. He won’t apologize for saving her, thinks that she finally doesn’t want him to. She turns on her side, wiping away her own tears and taking his face in her hands, finally answering his question. “No.  I don’t.” Then she tells him what she should have said the moment she opened her eyes to him hovering over her. What _he_ had said to her the moment the bunker door was opened and he ran straight into her arms.  “Thank you for saving me.”

“I don’t know how to do this without you, Abby,” he pulls her impossibly closer so that every inch of them is touching and he has to close his eyes because she’s too close for him to focus.

“Maybe there’s still hope,” she tells him as she kisses his lips, his cheeks, wherever she can reach without pulling away.  “Maybe we can turn the page and be better tomorrow.” A smile twitches at his lips, she feels it against her skin, as he hears his own words fall from her lips.  “I do listen to you,” she confesses, adding “every now and then.”

When they come together it’s as natural as breathing, joined in much more than their bodies. There’s safety in their embrace, love in the sighs they press into the others skin, a promise of a future in the gaze they hold as they each lose themselves in the other.

Thelonious Jaha is dead. Marcus Kane and Abby Griffin are still alive. In the quiet darkness they vow to each other to live.

  



	5. Into the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After re-watching the Dark Year I got to thinking about Abby's role in everything and how her addiction may have started. Thanks Jenny for just telling me to go dark and see what happens. I hope you like it.

It was early when she slipped out from under his arm.  Or late, depending on how you looked at it. The artificial lighting was still on night mode, casting a dim orange glow down the empty concrete walls.  Were the stars still out? Had the sun started to rise? Was it raining? Snowing? They’d taken so much of the outside for granted when they landed, slept through sunrises, worked through sunsets, ran for shelter from the rain instead of dancing in it.  And now they’re trapped again, rationing again, dying again when they never got more than a few days to live.

 

She’s tired of it all; consumed by a bone-deep exhaustion, but unable to sleep.  This is when she works. In the quiet dark of not-quite-morning, when no one roams the halls, when no one was around to see, she slips into the morgue and start her day amongst the dead.

 

Abby doesn’t know when she started talking to him, but now he’s a natural part of her day, her partner in crime.  Abby Griffin and the ghost of Thelonious Jaha: the butchers of the Wonkru Bunker. She kept it light at first, just needing to fill the silence even if it was with her own voice.

 

She lost the levity a while back, her humanity further back than that.  Now she’s just lost.

 

The lights turn on when she enters, harsh fluorescents that have her hiding her eyes in the bend of her elbow and smacking out against the wall until the lights dim to something tolerable.  There are three bodies laid out for her, stripped of their clothes, cleaned of blood, covered in a sheet. It’s all she’ll allow Jackson to do. He’s never entered this room when it wasn’t empty and cleansed of the sins she commits here.  No one has. No one will.

 

He sets scalpels out for her, blades as sharp as the first time he laid them out for her.  She pushes them aside as she does each morning, reaching instead for the knife in her boot.  Niylah had given it to her when she first resolved to do this on her own. It was bulky the first few times, she sliced her hand bad enough that Jackson had to stitch her palm back together.  Now, it’s an extension of her arm.

 

The first body is dealt with before she stops to wipe the sweat from her brow, before her steady hand starts to tremble.  “Not as long today,” she tells whatever ghost is listening as she slides down the wall to the floor and fishes a little orange bottle out of her boot.  “I’m sorry,” she whispers not knowing who she’s apologizing to for her failings. She knows she’s killing herself slowly. Knows the science of the addiction, the chemical composition, the risk she takes every time she forces down another capsule.  They don’t last as long; they don’t help as much, but she doesn’t know any other way to survive in the dark. There’s no more path to follow out, no more light at the end of the tunnel. Not for her. 

  
  


She squeezes her eyes tight until the medication takes hold.  She feels herself receding it spreads through her, filling her once again with emptiness.  Normally, when she reaches this equilibrium between functioning and feeling she’s quick to rise and finish her work before it fades again.  Today she’s tired; today she stays on the floor and stares up at the pile of protein that yesterday was a man from Trikru. It’s quiet. Too quiet with only the sound of the lights humming and her pulse beating in her ears.  So she talks. Soft and low, confessions meant only for those who can no longer betray them. 

 

“I never thought I’d miss the protein packs on the Ark.  Do you remember those? The color that wasn’t even a color, just blob of grayish, brownish…” she trails off, pressing her fists into her eyes until colors burst behind her lids.  “Did you like the pasty blob or the dry blob? They were the same, you know. They just added water to the dry and put it in a tube. It was all about perception. We thought we had variety; we thought we were given a choice.  We weren’t. Same old blob.

 

“They’re pink now.  Perfect little pink cubes all pressed together so you don’t know if you’re eating a shoulder, a kidney, a thigh...It’s just protein.  Just protein. Just what we have to do to survive. It’s what we have to do. It’s what I have to make them do because if they don’t...if they don’t, they die.  People I  _ love  _ die, the  _ human race _ dies.”  Her head drops to her knees, hands pressed flat to the cold floor to stave off the tilt of of the room.

 

“How did you do it?  How did you do it all those years?  How did you make these choices? I hated you.  God, I hated you for making us monsters, for forcing us to choose who lives and who dies.  But you had to. And you had to live with it. How did you do that? Did you know that this was going to happen?  Is that why you wouldn’t let me save you? I could have saved you!” her voice rises, echoes in the room. She looks around expecting to see herself yelling at her from above.  “I’m good,” her voice continues, softer and trembling. “I  _ was  _ good.  These hands made hearts beat again, sewed flesh back together, put air back into lungs.  

 

“They’re still good.  They can skin a body, cut muscle from bone, harvest organs and get everything into a perfect...little...cube,” she turns her hands over and over inspecting strong tendons, short bitten nails, spotted with life and death. 

 

“I was so selfish when I asked him not to include me in the lottery.  So so selfish. I could have saved one person then. One. And now, now I think I could save at least five?  Maybe seven. I look at my body and all I see is muscle and bone but there’s organs, blood, marrow,” she chuckles dryly, eyes darting around the dark room letting memories of Mount Weather filter in.  She digs her fingers into her knee, pushing hard into scar tissue, into nerves that haven’t quite healed. The pain barely registers.

 

“I don’t feel anything anymore, Thelonious.  Nothing. He used to help, his arms, his voice, his cock.  He used to help. But nothing helps anymore. I don’t  _ feel  _ anything.  I can’t let him touch me because if he touches me than he’s helping me.  If he makes me feel better than he’d be helping me do this thing; he’d be complicit in it.  And he’s a good man. He’s a good, good man and I won’t put this on him. I’ll keep us alive and he’ll make sure we deserve to live.  How’s that for irony.”

 

“He knows.  He knows I still take the pills.  I can see it in the way he looks at me.  He’s sad. Disappointed. I’m hurting him, but I can’t stop.  I can’t feel it. I can’t let him know. He can’t see. He can’t…” she’s shaking again, breath heaving into her lungs, tears and snot running down her face into her tangled hair.  It’s too soon. She knows it’s too soon it can’t have been an hour since she took the last pill. It’s too soon, but her shaking hands are opening the bottle, fishing out the only thing that can get her up to finish her task.  She fights through hiccuped sobs to swallow it down; it scratches as she struggles to pull enough saliva to move it along.

 

She finishes her work quickly once the second pill kicks in, making up for the time she wasted lost in her spiraling thoughts.  What she can’t use from the bodies gets burned, the room scrubbed and mopped, surgical instruments rolled back to their position beside the empty metal table.  When she leaves it looks like nothing’s happened in that haunted place.

 

The hallways are still dim when she returns to their room.  He’s still in bed where she left him, but she doesn’t go to him yet.  She heads to the shower, letting the hot water cleanse her body, the steam fill her lungs.  When she emerges, pink and pruny, she’s still blissfully numb. 

 

“Come back to bed,” his voice startles her as she reaches blindly into the drawer for the clothes she washed blood from the night before.  “Abby,” he says more firmly, reaching across the small space and brushing his fingers against her bare hip. “Come back to bed. Please.” She shouldn’t.  She doesn’t deserve to. But she’s too far into the high to remember why she’s punishing herself. So she takes his hand and lets him pull her down onto the mattress.

 

The pills quiet her thoughts. They let her sleep. Let her push past Abby and Dr Griffin, past the butcher she’s become until she’s only hands that do what they must to feed her people. The pills let her face the world without categorizing muscle mass, without picturing where she’d make her first incision. The pills let him touch her without her mind wandering to whether or not she’d be able to dissect the arms that hold her through the nightmares, if she’d recognize the taste of his flesh on her tongue as she does now. Open mouthed kisses pressing half-heartedly into his shoulder as he moves over her, as he tells her how much he loves her, as he silently cries for the woman she used to be.  

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers as she rolls away.  The pills take the pain, but with it goes the passion.

 

“Me too,” he reaches for her tentatively this time, fingers barely touching her arm yet she still flinches at the contact.  Marcus moves his hand away letting it drop to the mattress between them. She hears him breathing, slow and steady; feels it raise goosebumps on her back.  “Tell me how to help you, Abby. Tell me how to get you back?” his voice breaks. She won’t turn to see the tears she knows he’s crying. She won’t because she can’t cry for herself anymore.  The bed barely moves when she rises, silently dresses, and takes a pill.

  
  



	6. What Feels Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set at Polis right after ALIE because that seems to be my happy place.  
> Marcus takes care of Abby trope.

“I’m fine,” she assures him, tossing her jacket and medical bag into the corner of his room. They’d spent the day patching people up and trying to find order in the chaos of ALIE’s aftermath.

“You’re clearly not,” he argues, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the wall. “ Let me help you.”

“Marcus, I’m fine,” she tosses her hands up in frustration and blanches from sharp pain that sears across her back. She shouldn’t have done that.

“And yet, you make that face every time you move, but you won’t stop moving!” He marches past, hangs her coat up and levels her with his I-know-when-you’re-lying look that has her crossing her arms in frustration.

“I tweaked my back. It’s nothing.” Its slightly more than nothing, but all things considering its nothing she can’t handle if she doesn’t bend or twist or raise her arms for a few days.

“Sit,” he turns the chair toward her. “Let me see.”

“There’s nothing to see. I’m fine.” She doesn’t move. And if she doesn’t move then it doesn’t hurt and she can show him just how ‘fine’ she is.

“Abby.”

That tone. She hates when he says her name in that tone. That tone means ‘Abby, I’m about to sacrifice myself so you can get to the ground. Abby, I’m about to go into enemy territory unarmed to save your daughter. Abby, I’d rather die myself than watch you get hurt. Abby, as long as they don’t hurt you I’ll let them...’

“You were nailed to a cross, Marcus! I pulled a muscle. I’m FINE!” she turns to go. She doesn’t know where she’s going, but she can’t be here, can’t look at him right now after everything she’s done. 

He grabs her arm before she makes it to the door. “You pulled a muscle while you were hanging from a noose,” he says so matter-of-factly that it should be absurd if it weren’t true. “I don’t think we need to compare injuries courtesy of ALIE. You sewed up my wrists, let me rub your back.”

Her breath hitches again, she winces again. He moves his hand from her arm to her side. She covers it with her own, having every intention of shoving him off but the softness in his eyes has her guiding him up and left until he’s covering the strained muscle.

He can feel it through layers of fabric. Stubborn, stubborn woman. “Sit,” he tells her in his Chancellor voice. It earns him an eye roll and a sigh as she straddles the only chair in the room. “Can this come off?” his hand moves firmly up across her back, but he’s bunching up blood-caked fabric more than massaging tense muscle. She nods, leaning away from the back of the chair and lifting her arms to help him as best she can. She shifts her bra back down and leans forward into the chair as he folds her filthy shirts and lays them on the table. She’d as soon as burn them, but can’t help but be touched my his reverence for her things and his compulsion to keep things orderly. 

Marcus places his hand on her waist, steps back, then forward. He’s bent awkwardly over her, trying to find a place to stand where he can reach her without causing his own back to seize up. He could kneel behind her, but his knees are protesting at just the thought of spending that much time on the concrete floor. He laughs against her shoulder when he realizes there is no way this is going to work. “You’re too short,” he comes around to the front of her, holds his hand out to help her to her feet. “Go lay down so I can reach you.”

“Marcus, I’m really…” she starts to protest.

“If you tell me you’re fine one more time…”

She holds his gaze until she realizes her glares are becoming much less effective on him, removes her necklace, lays it on her shirts before she takes his hand and lets him help her up. She keeps ahold of him as he walks them toward dresser on the other side of the room, biting back the smart comment that the bed is in the other direction, and choosing to watch him curiously as he uncorks the small clear vials set out on the dresser, chuckling softly as his nose wrinkles at the first before quickly recorking it and grabbing the next. His face is much more pleased as he holds it out for her to inspect. “Lavender?” he asks for her confirmation. Abby nods as the familiar scent fills her. “Might as well do this properly,” he leads her to the bed. She doesn’t release his hand until she sinks into the mattress, turns her face from him, and mutters a quiet “thank you” into her pillow.

He Mmmhmm’s as the mattress dips with is weight and he pulls her hair to the side. The cool oil trickles down her spine causing her to shiver before strong hands that shouldn’t be capable of being so gentle set to work on her back.

They don’t talk. They haven’t really talked at all. Not about the torture, her forced deception, his almost execution, that kiss… It’s too much. There’s no where to start and no time to finish so they don’t even try. The silence is comfortable, the bed beneath her more so and he’s just about lulled her into a much needed sleep before he presses a little too hard. She flinches under him, whimpers before she’s able to hold it back, and his whispered “sorry,” finally breaks the silence. 

 

“Its okay,” she hisses out, because it hurts like hell but, there’s no other way out than through. His hands move lower after a few more seconds of torture and the breath Abby’s been holding wooshes out of her. He’s not done, the knot’s still there, but he’s giving her a break while he kneads his knuckles into the small of her back. 

“Does this still hurt?” his fingers trace over barely there scars scattered over her skin.

“Feels good,” she mumbles, falling back into that space between wake a sleep.

“No, Abby. I meant…”

“I know what you meant,” she cuts him off. Out of all the conversations they need to have, this is not one of them. “Water under the bridge, Marcus. You did what you had to do.”

“If feels like a lifetime ago,” he pours more oil over the scars, wishing he could simply massage them away.

“It was.”

A few more silent moments pass before he moves back up to the spot she wishes he’d avoid, pushing firmly, rubbing quickly, trying to work it out as quickly as possible. She focuses on her breathing: in and out, slow and steady, moans deeply and unexpectedly as the tension suddenly releases and her entire body loosens under his touch. She expects him to stop, but his hands move up between her shoulder blades, thumbs press into her neck, move across her shoulders, down her arms, back up to her neck. Over and over. She doesn’t realize she’s started crying until she hears herself sniffle. 

 

“Am I hurting you?” his hands still on her biceps as he looks away from her body to see the tears streaming down her face. She shakes her head, wipes roughly at her cheeks before turning her face into the pillow. It’s pointless, she knows. She can hardly hide from him. Appreciates the fact that he never lets her.

“Talk to me,” he leans forward one hand braced between her shoulder blades, the other stroking her hair, gently urging her face to turn to him.

“It feels good,” her breath hitches as warm tears continue to streak down her face. He wipes them away, continuing to run his fingers through her hair. “It’s been...It’s been a really long time since anyone has touched me and...and if feels good.” She stares up at him, red-eyed, but relaxed as his hands continue to move aimlessly against her.

He hears what she can’t say, what she’s never said to anyone. She had a marriage of convenience, of friendship, of fulfilling the role she was meant to play in their generations survival. Jake Griffin was a good man, one that Marcus had once called a friend, and to that end he was one of the few people that knew he and Abby’s perfect union wasn’t as perfect as it appeared. He’d never hurt her (he wouldn’t have lived as long as he had if he did), but he never loved her like she deserved to be loved. It was the main reason Marcus had distanced himself from them both: he couldn’t forgive Jake for not letting her go, he couldn’t understand why Abby never fought for her own happiness.

“Lie with me?” she reaches for him, gets a hand full of shirt and gathers up the fabric in her hand until her palm can press against his ribs. His skin is warm and smooth as she stretches further so that she can pull him to her. They’re fluid, practiced, as if it hadn’t been ages since either of them had been this close to another person. Marcus leans over her as Abby rolls to her back. He kisses her. Slowly this time, softly, as clothes come off and bodies touch and for the first time in longer than either can remember everything just feels good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's another fic I've been working on that I was going to post today (and still may) but I felt that this had to come first so I could get a better grasp on that one. Thank you t @nyxierose for being an amazing sounding board and my Abby inspiration.


	7. Without This Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Polis. Missing Scene of Abby taking off her wedding rings.

Without this ring…

It’s not platinum or gold. It’s not even silver. There are no diamonds set into the band. The Ark didn’t have the luxuries of the old earth, but they’d kept some of the traditions. The parts where a popular, good looking boy falls for a smart, well-respected girl, makes a fool out of himself trying to impress her until she finally gives in and grants him her company. She learns that he is more than the popular boy; he is kind and attentive and can make her laugh. She’s overwhelmed by his stammering nervousness when he drops to one knee and presents her with a band made of scrap metal on her 18th birthday. The ceremony quickly follows and her hands shake as she as she slides a ring made of the same dull metal as her own onto his finger. They vow never to take them off. 

They become bound to each other. She becomes Abby Griffin with two simple words.

Two lives come together, make a third. And through it all—fights and forgiveness, love and luck—they wear these matching trinkets. It’s such a simple thing, such an easy pattern to fall in to. Twenty years and the ring has never leaves her hand. It becomes a part of her, molds itself to the contours of her finger and she never thought about the weight it held until Jake had placed his in her hand as he was being sent to his death. 

Since that day she’s worn his ring around her neck. She’s felt the solid weight of her guilt over her heart. Though she no longer blames herself for his death (that’s on Jaha and a betrayal she’ll never forgive) she can’t stop hating herself for not loving him him like he deserved. But she didn’t know how. She did everything right, played the perfect wife. She didn’t know she was even capable of feeling this.

Would he have let her go if she’d asked? She can’t help but think it as she spins her ring around and around. Divorce was rare, but not unheard of. Except they were Jake and Abby Griffin; they were what people aspired to be. He would have told her they had to set a good example for their daughter, for their people as if the entire weight of the god damned human race hinged on their happy sham of a marriage. 

It’s not all on her.

If she’s honest with herself, Jake never loved like Marcus does. It wasn’t his fault and it wasn’t hers. It was their situation. Survival on the Ark called for sacrifice, called for practical. You partnered with who fit you and hoped for the best. They were lucky, a good, solid match. She was content, often even happy. He cared for her and he loved their daughter and she loved him for that. But once the giddiness of youth faded it was clear that he was never in love with her. He never looked at her like she was the only person in the room, never touched her just because he could, never kissed her breath away and made her feel wanted. 

There’s not a doubt in her mind that Jake Griffin would have let Jaha put a bullet in her head. He put the fate of everyone above all else, above their family, above her. It drives her absolutely mad that Marcus is so willing to die for her; thrills her that someone could love her so fiercely that they would sacrifice everything for her; terrifies her because she’s halfway through her life and feels like she’s just now starting to live.

It baffles her how much a person can change in one bad year. She’s been through more at the side of Marcus Kane than she ever could have fathomed. Earth Skills and history lessons hadn’t even begun to prepare them for the nightmares of the ground. They have a bit of respite now. Six months anyway before the world supposedly burns itself out. Her days have been busy tending to the new king, trying to maintain a fragile peace between a people still struggling with the aftermath of mind control. Her nights (and many of her mornings) have been spent wrapped up in Marcus’ arms with his lips on her skin and his hands everywhere.

He’d told her this morning that Jake was a part of her as he’d kissed her shoulder and fastened that chain back around her neck. They don’t bother him. He’s made that plain as day when he settled her late husband’s ring back over her heart. He was a part of her. Was a part of her. Was for almost twenty years; twenty good years. 

But she’s spent the last few months balancing the fragility of life with the fierceness of love and, damnit, good isn’t good enough anymore.

Jake is a part of who she used to be, a part of Dr. Abigail Griffin, of Jake’s wife, of Clarke’s mother. But maybe not of Abby. 

She pulls the ring from her finger, one firm pull that leaves her knuckle red and stinging. The clink together, a flat, dull sound as she winds the chain around them and tucks them into her jacket. Clarke will want them. She can be the keeper of the memories that weren’t quite perfect. Abby makes new vows without those simple rings: promises to herself to let that other life go, to forgive herself for a life she wasted not knowing it could be more, to figure out how this new self fits into the world, and to let her be loved.


End file.
